


Long Lost Hearts

by actualkoschei



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, End of Time Fix-It, Fix-It, Gallifrey, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Regeneration
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-04-28 11:22:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5088854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/actualkoschei/pseuds/actualkoschei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Master, for once, listens to the Doctor, and regenerates after taking a bullet to the chest from his wife.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Begin Anew

“Regenerate! _Please!”_ The Doctor pleads, eyes stinging with tears and his throat rough with screaming. There is blood spreading over the front of the Master's white shirt. So much blood, and it tears at the Doctor's heart to see. “Come on, Master.” He whispers against the other Time Lord's ear, more softly this time. “You can do it.”

The Master coughs, hard, at first choking blood, and then sparkling golden energy. Regeneration energy. 

“There you go.” The Doctor smiles through his tears, cradling the Master tenderly. “That's it.”   
The Master is melting in his arms, starting to spiral away into a swirl of energy. The Doctor lets go of him, gently, laying him on the floor before stepping back. Best not to be too close. Best not to disturb the regeneration. 

The Master's body is gone. He has turned to a phenomenon of time, a nebula of Huon particles waiting to be reborn. The Doctor watches, waiting to see him take shape. When he does, the Master sags to the floor, his suit filling too loosely around his new body. The Master is slender now; long, soft limbs, pale smooth skin, black eyes and dark long hair. 

The Doctor's hearts throb in pain. The Master looks so young. Not just because of his smooth face and slender fragility, but also because this face, this new face, is so reminiscent of his childhood form.  _He looks like Koschei again._ The Doctor thinks.  _My Koschei..._

He kneels beside the other, prone Time Lord again, stroking his hands through the new, soft curls. He murmurs soothing words, half-sounds and childish Gallifreyan. 

“Uh, Doctor?” A voice cuts through the Doctor's concentration. “Can you explain what just happened, please?” Martha. Because of course it is. Brave Martha, so calm, no matter what she sees in front of her. 

“He regenerated.” The Doctor replies, speaking quickly, too quickly, but not quick enough to keep up with his mind, still. “Handy quirk of Time Lord biology. He's got a whole new body now. And probably personality, too.”

In response, the Master's eyelids flutter as he starts to wake from the post-regeneration daze. “D-doctor...?” His voice is shockingly soft, hoarse and husky, with a hint of a Welsh accent. 

“I'm here.” The Doctor reassures him. “Listen, Jack, Martha... all of you. I've got to get him out of here. Before he comes around properly. Sorry. Got to go.” He hoists the Master into his arms, moving towards the freed Tardis. 

“Wait!” Jack steps in front of them, staring the Doctor down. “You can't just take him! He's a criminal! He has to face some sort of justice!”

“Jack.” The Doctor holds out a hand, placating. “The safest place for him right now is the Tardis. I can deal with him.”

“Doctor...”  
“Jack. _Please_.”

Jack's scowl waivers, seeing the desperate emotion on the Doctor's face. “Alright.” He acquiesces. “Go. Take him.” 

The Doctor sighs in relief, before stepping inside the Tardis and locking the door behind them.

“Alright, Master.” He sets the other down on his feet. “Why aren't you fighting me? Did you want to get out of there that badly?” He smiles bitterly. “Well, it worked. You're trapped in here with me now.”  
The Master looks at the Doctor, reaching out a hand to him, the start of words forming on his lips, before he doubles over and collapses to the ground, coughing out clouds of regeneration energy. 

The Doctor is beside him in seconds, cradling him close to his chest. “Oh, Master.” He rubs the other's back gently. “You've got regeneration sickness something awful, haven't you?”

The Master whimpers in response, burying his face in the Doctor's shoulder. 

“I know.” The Doctor soothes, reassuring. “I know, Koschei.”

“That's... not my... name.”

The denial sends another sharp pang through the Doctor's hearts. “Master, then.”  
“Better.”

The Doctor smiles at him. “Seems your personality hasn't changed. I like your new body, by the way.” 

The Master makes a harrumphing sound, but his face looks pleased. 

The Doctor reaches down to him, helping the Master onto his feet. “Let's see if we can find you a bed, shall we?” He leads the Master to one of the Tardis's spare bedrooms, not recently used by a companion. A small, pleasant room in the style of an average Earth bedroom, with an adjoining bathroom. Cream-coloured walls, dark wooden trim, light blue carpet, and a plaid bed cover. The Doctor lays the Master down on the bed, tucking the duvet and sheets around him. “There you are. Sleep it off, Master. We'll talk when you're feeling better.”

The Master nods, feeling sick and pathetic. Despite all his wishes to the contrary, he can't help but want the Doctor to stay. The other's touch feels good, soothing and familiar, and the Master wants more. The drums are coming back. He had been granted barely ten minutes of peace, and now they are back, pounding relentlessly in his head. His body is seizing in sick pain, but it is too late to ask for comfort. The Doctor is already leaving the room, deadlocking the door behind him. 

As soon as the door is locked, the Doctor slides down the wall outside, collapsing to the Tardis floor. “Oh, Koschei.” He moans aloud. “My love, my baby, my Kos. What's happened to you? What has the universe  _done_ to you?”   
There is no answer, save for a faint cry heard through the wall from where the Master lies. The Doctor shudders in pain at the sound, struggling to his feet and walking away. Around him, the Tardis hums her disapproval.  _++I don't like him.++_ The Doctor hears Idris's voice ring in his head. 

“I know, old girl.” He replies, exhausted but affectionate. “I know you don't like him, but you are going to have to put up with him for a while, alright? It's for the best, I promise.” Even as he speaks, the Doctor is unsure of whether his words are supposed to console his Tardis or himself. 

 


	2. A Way to Help

The Master cries out, wailing desperately. His fingers claw at the sheets, tangling in the soft linen and coming close to tearing the fragile fabric. The nausea has not let up, and his sheets are already stained with the bile hacked up from his empty stomach. “Doctor...” He moans softly. “Help me!”

There is no answer. The Doctor is gone. He locked the Master in this room, and then vanished, leaving him to his agony.   
And the Master remembers.

The Master cries out, wailing desperately. His fingers claw at the sheets, tangling in the soft linen and coming close to tearing the fragile fabric. The nausea has not let up, and his sheets are already stained with the bile hacked up from his empty stomach. “Doctor...” He moans softly. “Help me!”  
There is no answer. The Doctor is gone. He locked the Master in this room, and then vanished, leaving him to his agony.   
And the Master remembers.

_Ten years old, running through the red grass of Gallifrey. Theta's blond curls framing his face in a glowing aura as he runs ahead, turning back to laugh at his friend. “Come on, Kos, come on...”_

_Thirteen years old, sitting through their first lesson on forms of reproduction. The teacher is done talking about looming. They know about looming, most of all of them were made that way. He moves onto sexual reproduction, and the room fills with titters. Koschei's cheeks flush hot with interest..._

_Fifteen years old, stealing kisses from Theta Sigma in a half-darkened science lab. Theta's lips are soft and warm and wet, and he moans loud, hooking his legs around Koschei's waist..._

The Master lets out a sob, hot salt tears running down his cheeks and into the pillowcase. “Theta.” He whines. “Theta. I  _need_  you!”

But there is no answer, only the incessant beat of the drums.  _One two-three-four. One two-three-four._  It doesn't falter, it doesn't stop.

There comes the sound of a key scraping in the door, rousing the Master from his daze of pain.  _Doctor. Oh, thank Rassilon._

“Master...?” The Doctor calls from the doorway, and then sighs softly as he takes in the state of the room. Sheets stained with tears and sweat and vomit, blankets pushed off and tangled on the floor, and the Master himself, curled in the fetal position in the centre of the bed.

The Doctor crosses the room quickly, laying a hand gently on the Master's back, and rubbing in wide, soothing circles. “Is it the drums?” He asks, voice soft.

“Yes. Make them stop, Theta.” The Master's voice shakes, and he is ashamed of that, and of his pleading, of his use of that old, obsolete name.

The Doctor's heart clench hearing it. “I will. I promise.” He wraps his arms around the Master's torso, lifting him to stand. “Let's get you cleaned off, alright?”

The Master nods, letting the Doctor guide him into the bathroom, strip him of his clothes, and then push him into a hot shower. 

 

The water is soothing, like a kiss, washing away the dirt and sweat and tears and blood coating his skin. Letting him be clean again, new again, like a newly-loomed child. He looks up, and threw the haze of steam and liquid droplets, sees the Doctor watching him. The other Time Lord’s eyes are kind, but distant. Lost in memories. And clearly, obviously, plotting something.

 

The Master stumbles out of the shower, wrapping himself tightly in a towel. “What are you scheming about, my dear Doctor?”

 

The Doctor smiles, bittersweet and full of sadness. “About how to make the drums stop, Master.”

 

“You can’t. Not really.” The Master’s brow creases in confusion. “You can’t _stop_ them. Just make them go quiet for a bit.”

 

“Oh, but I _can_ stop them. You just have to agree to let me, alright?”

 

The Master thinks for a moment, confused by what the Doctor might intend. But the ache in his mind is persistent, biting, and if the Doctor can take it away from him… “I will allow it.”

 

“Fantastic!” The Doctor brightens considerably. “We should probably go up to my bedroom for this, yours is a bit of a mess.”

 

 

When the Master sees the Doctor’s bedroom, he gasps aloud, unable to help himself. The room is a little piece of Gallifrey. Hazy crimson light fills the space. The walls are gnarled wood, twisted and looking organic and alive, as if they met have grown there. Just like the interior of a Gallifreyan Great House. The Doctor’s bed is in the centre of the room, low and wide, covered in bright red and orange pillows and blankets.

 

“It’s beautiful, Doctor.” The Master breathes, his eyes filling with tears despite himself.

 

“I know. I thought you might think that. Now, why don’t you lie down on the bed, and let’s get started.”

 

The Master smirks. “Oh, wouldn’t you love that.”

  
“Not like that! Just so I can help you!” The Doctor puts a hand on the other’s chest, shoving him back onto the bed and then sitting beside him.  
  
“Ready?” He asks softly.

  
“Waiting on you.”

 

The Doctor sits by the Master, smiling at him, and then leads down to press his finger to the other Time Lord’s temples. Their minds link, and the Master can feel the Doctor rummaging through his brain. It is not unpleasant, not like it would be with anyone else. The Doctor’s mental touch is kind, and familiar. And then it starts to hurt. Starts to burn, tear, and the Master and the Doctor cry out in tandem.

 

Then the Doctor’s presence is gone. And with it, the drums. There is silence in the Master’s mind, only the whisper of his thoughts to be heard. He bursts into tears, sobbing bitterly. The quiet shouldn’t hurt him, but it does. He feels empty, broken, almost, as though he is missing a piece of himself.

  
The Doctor’s face has gone pale, twisted with pain, but he reaches out to comfort the Master nonetheless. Pulls him to his chest, and holds him there, stroking his hair gently. “It’s alright. It’s over now.” 


	3. Chapter 3

The Master can't stop himself from reaching out, stroking the Doctor's cheek lightly with his long-fingered hand. “Over? Really?” There's a small broken sort of hope in his voice that goes straight to the Doctor's hearts, almost more painful than the new ache in his head. 

“Yes, my friend. It's really over.” For you, he thinks, but does not say it, instead watches the look of peace and triumph unfurl over the Master's face like a victory banner. 

The Master sighs, long and soft. “Are you going to let me go now, dearest Doctor?”

The Doctor shakes his head. “No. I can't, you know that. You're a wanted criminal in several galaxies. The things they'd to do you... no, it's far better if you stay here with me.” He sees the look on the Master's face, sore and disappointed at once, and tries to sweeten the deal. “I'll take you somewhere nice. Medusa Cascade. The Endless Nebula. The Sky Lakes. Anywhere that doesn't have other people.”

The Master's face tenses, ugly with anger for a moment. “What, can't I even be trusted among people for a few hours? Do you think I'm that mad, Doctor?”

The Doctor sighs, bone-weary. “No. I don't think you're mad. Not really. I think you've been driven to terrible things. But that's not why. It's because they could hurt you.”

For a moment, the Master is speechless. “You... do you...” he stutters, that proud Prydonian voice caught and broken. “Do you care?”

“Of course I do.” The Doctor says it with so much passion, so much sincere intensity, and pulls the Master again, embracing the other carelessly tight. “I do, I care about you so much, you have no idea.” His head is burning. Pounding. Loud as Gallifrey burning, and he wants to scream. He is shaking, his face deathly white, fingers pounding out an endless rhythm.

“Doctor!” The Master's voice is sharp, but coloured with something that could have been called worry if it came from anyone else. “Doctor, what have you done?”

“Master... Koschei...” He finds himself unable to stop the name slipping out. “It hurts. It hurts so much, how did you bear it?”

“I didn't. You saw I didn't, I went mad. Doctor, you shouldn't have done this.”

“But I did. And I'm not putting them back.” He winces, nausea swirling in his stomach. “Help me.”

The Master stares for a moment, and then relents, wrapping his arms around the Doctor. “Lay in my lap, pet, that's it. Just until this is over. I won't cuddle up with you like this after.” He does not know whether he is trying to convince the Doctor or himself. It feels good, the warmth, the touch. The Master has missed this. He supposes they both have.

The Doctor is crying. Not proper sobs, but soft whimpers, his fingers tangled in the Master's flannel pyjama shirt. It is an awful thing to see, pathetic, weak, and heart-rending all at the same time. The great man brought low, racked with exhaustion and pain and the consequences of his self-sacrificing behaviour. 

“Beautiful Doctor.” The Master murmurs, words that would never slip from his mouth in any other context. “Your hearts are too big to hold all of this. Why do you take the pain of all the world inside you?”

“Because...” The Doctor whines, sobs, his voice breaking. “Somebody has to. I can't leave them all to bear it all on their own, I'd go mad!”

“But perhaps you already have.” The Master points out, no bite or ire in his voice. “Look at you. Sobbing into the lap of your worst enemy.”

The Doctor looks even more heartbroken. “You're not...”

The Master leans down to hush him. “I know. That honour would belong to the Daleks, I would assume. Or the Cybermen. Some such race of abominations. Not me, for all I have done to you. Perhaps you remember happier times. Theta Sigma and Koschei. Do you, dear one?”

The Doctor nods, miserably.

“Good. Don't forget them, Doctor, let them bring you comfort now. Now that you have taken so great a burden for your own. You are going to need it.”


End file.
